


Michelada

by yeaka



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-30 09:51:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5159321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They celebrate at a club.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Michelada

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This isn’t properly British. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of its contents, and I'm not making any money off this.

The bar is packed, incredibly loud, and worst of all, dimly lit with flashing lights. It makes reading his papers near-impossible, but Percy tries, because ‘my husband won another game’ is no excuse to take off work. 

He uses what charms he can get away with, subtle things that won’t disrupt the muggles—a muffling one to make the blaring music tolerable and a sharper vision one on his glasses that somewhat strains his eyes but is necessary for this circumstance. It’s still difficult, but he manages. A part of him wishes he could get some real alcohol in his glass, but he needs a clear head for his forms. He’s already fighting for concentration with Oliver in the background.

He tries to keep his gaze down. But Oliver never strays too far, and Percy has a clear view straight to the dance floor, where all of Puddlemere’s partying with the gyrating masses, Oliver directly ahead in his tight jeans and half-unbuttoned white top. The vivid colours of the strobe lights paint him up in dizzying patterns, his smile brighter than all of it. He moves like the star he is, fit and taut and all hard muscles for Percy, and everyone else’s, hungry eyes. Women love to dance with him, and they crowd around him in tight packs of smaller dresses, leaning in to shout coyly in his ear over the music or feel his toned body. He politely moves their hands away when they cross that line, but he still dances with them. As irritated as Percy can get when his brothers try to monopolize Oliver’s time, he doesn’t get jealous over this. Oliver’s faithful, just good-humoured, and he often glances over them to Percy, sending Percy back to his papers and the pretense that he’s working. 

Of course, Oliver comes to him eventually. He disentangles from his mass of fans and makes it back to the table, where he calls, “Dance with me!” Percy wouldn’t be able to articulate the words over the noise if he weren’t so used to the shape of Oliver’s lips. He just shakes his head and lifts a hand, because he needs to do this, he’s not a particularly good dancer, and grinding into Oliver will make him stumble into things he doesn’t want to do in public. 

Oliver knows, like he knows all of Percy, and comes around the thin black table, sliding along the plush faux-leather of the curved wall seat. He lands right next to Percy, his hips touching Percy’s through Percy’s dress pants and a sweater he’s had to weave a cooling charm into. Oliver casually slips his arm over Percy’s shoulders and asks in Percy’s ear, “You want to sit here all night?”

Percy mutters, “Yes,” and wishes he had the strength to pull away. Oliver smells vaguely musky, of alcohol and aftershave, and for some reason Percy finds it irresistible. The scratch of Oliver’s stubble along his jaw makes him shiver, and Oliver turns to nip at his cheek, one hand falling to rub his thigh and squeeze. 

Percy hesitates, his fingers loosening their grip enough for Oliver to tug his papers and quill neatly away. Oliver tucks them with a practiced ease back into Percy’s bag, dropped again at their feet, and Percy subtly weaves his leg around the shoulder strap, just in case. He can tell he won’t be opening it again right away. 

“You look really cute in Fuchsia,” Oliver murmurs, a little slurred, and mixing up his colours—nothing Percy’s wearing and none of the strobe lights are like that. Percy just takes the compliment. Oliver shifts one leg over him, moving to straddle his waist, and suddenly Percy’s got a lap full of husband. Oliver starts with both hands on Percy’s neck, used to tilt Percy up for a slow, raunchy kiss, and Percy gives in to clutch at Oliver’s thick hips, fingers traitorously skimming up beneath his shirt to feel his skin. Percy doesn’t mean to go any lower. But his fingertips still graze beneath Oliver’s jeans, and he has to bite his lips to stifle his moan—Oliver has a _fantastic_ ass.

Oliver has a fantastic everything. And he knows how to use it all. He kisses Percy long and full, while his body starts to move to the music. He rolls into Percy, grinds hard against Percy’s lap and rises to rock them together, arching in ways Percy never could. Percy only stops kissing Oliver to watch, enjoy the show, and Oliver chuckles and withdraws his hands to play at the hem of his shirt, dragging it teasingly up. 

It’s not appropriate. A lap dance is something for the privacy of their living room, but once it’s started, Percy’s powerless to stop it. Oliver’s so _handsome_ and moves with such skill, from watching too many movies and practicing on an eager husband. He dances like a professional. He pulls his shirt gradually up until Percy can see every last bit of his six-pack and the start of his pecs, his brown nipples lightly pebbled from the arousal Percy can feel at his crotch. It takes effort for Percy not to lunge forward and catch those little nubs in his mouth. It takes even more effort not to go farther and knead Oliver’s ass. Somehow, he just holds on. Oliver keeps moving to the beat of the senseless music and places his hands back behind his head, showing everything off. 

If Percy had the words, he’d tease Oliver for it. He doesn’t. He just sits there, getting harder and harder and feeling ridiculously lucky—he doesn’t just get a _winner_ , someone as hard-working and successful as him, but someone who he _adores_ and loves him back and looks like _this_ and feels so good in his lap. He can already see where the bulge of Oliver’s fat cock is straining at his zipper, the waistband lifted away from his skin at the front. A smattering of light brown hair climbs out of it. Percy closes his mouth when he realizes he’s salivating. 

He breaks. He slides his hands right under Oliver’s jeans and underwear and takes two fistfuls of Oliver’s taut ass to _squeeze_. Oliver makes an erotic noise, but Percy’s the first to moan. Then Oliver wraps his arms back around Percy’s shoulders, leaning down to hiss, “I wanna fuck you right here.”

Percy kisses him quick and fleeting, only to look over his shoulder right after and shout, “Johnson!” By some miracle, a few of Oliver’s teammates look over, some already watching. Percy gestures closer, and they converge on him, laughing. 

They know what to do. This is the benefit of wizards and witches for friends. They cover the view from their table to the dance floor, making a tight yet inconspicuous wall of bodies, not without whistles and jokes Oliver will pay for later. He’d do the same for any of them. 

His bag held between his knees, Percy clutches onto Oliver’s back and Apparates them both home, right onto the bed, where those pesky jeans come right off a second later.


End file.
